Framed & Fractured
by Antediluvian Poet
Summary: Harry was trapped in a magical painting with no way out. His only company was the suspicious and curious stares of Tom Riddle. As Fate delivered this impossible crossing, an improbable and dangerous bond is made. Unconventional Time-Travel.
1. Chapter 1

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**Framed &amp; Fractured  
**Antediluvian Poet

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**Chapter One**

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lll

Harry remembered the first time he touched fire.

A storm had cut the Dursley's power, resulting in a frustrated Dudley who was in the middle of a video game, and a frazzled Petunia who attempted to soothe him. In the cupboard under the stairs, Harry sat in the dark, and wished for a light to chase away the loneliness. Then, as if someone had heard his wish, a candle lit up. Its presence drew him in, so he moved through the cramped space towards it. Harry imagined the small light to be a friend, brightening the darkness and warming the cold. He cannot recall moving his hand to the flame, nor bringing his fingers to touch it. All he remembers is the sensation of a pain so sharp and distinct, he never wished to feel it again.

However, this thing in front of him was not the candle from his room, but a beast composed of wildfire and destruction. Its heat was not a small warmth, but a volcano of magma, spewing a blaze incomparable to anything he had felt in his life.

Harry couldn't move.

He had come to the Room of Requirements to find Voldemort's horcrux, and he had found it. Only, throwing the diadem into the flames had enraged the Fiendfyre, the evil inside catapulting it into a new form, more vicious and beastly than before.

The terror alone would burn his soul if he let it, so he channelled the fear into a different compartment.

Survival.

So he ran.

Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle dismissed their mission and followed in similar pursuit. Right now, all that mattered was surviving another day–another day to fight someone else's war, to cast obligated spells–simply because it was expected.

And expectations were something Harry understood with unforgiving clarity. He had been handed the crucial task of destroying horcruxes by Dumbledore on a heavy platter–etched with the names of all who had died–and the weight grew with every radio broadcast, every news clipping and broken family.

Crabbe stopped running, turned and cast a spell at the fire behind them, but the Fiendfyre lashed out, devouring him in a storm of outrage.

Harry's breath faltered and his eyes widened behind flashing spectacles.

Crabbe was gone.

Malfoy and Goyle's eyes held the same fear and shock Harry felt. Nothing could be done for Crabbe now. They were in a war, and war collected causalities like badges, but to see it so intimately, so violently–enough to smell scorched flesh–was a brutality that should not have been witnessed.

The beast paused after ingesting its latest victim, and swelled. It could have looked beautiful, like witnessing the beginning of something extraordinary, had it not split and ruptured.

Harry hurtled across the room from sheer heat and unadulterated power. His limbs were useless, a rag doll at the mercy of the elements, flying through a sky on fire, until he hit a wall.

His body spasmed and coiled in distress. His breath hitched, exerting itself, trying to regain an act close to breathing - but all it did was fill his lungs with smoke.

He needed to get out. He needed to find Ron and Hermione, needed to know if they were able to destroy Hufflepuff's Cup down in the Chambers and if they were okay. He forced his eyes open and immediately regretted it.

Harry swallowed the rising bile and panic. It was everywhere, surrounding him in a torrid embrace.

He directed his wand where the flames were the lowest and casted spells he hoped would stamp it out.

Nothing worked.

The inferno laughed and danced at Harry's encroaching hysteria, but it was amongst the laughter that Harry caught sight of movement and blonde hair.

Draco swerved and dodged the flames with expertise on an old broom. He pulled out his wand and aimed at the fire which barricaded Harry. The hell-fire faltered, its temper abating, but it was short lived.

It re-ignited in double agitation. Hope turned to ash in Harry's mouth and a heaviness coiled in his gut.

Draco left, his one attempt at heroism unsuccessful and unwitnessed.

Harry was once again left alone with his fear.

Loneliness was a familiar friend, but this was a completely different state of isolation. He would burn with the room if he didn't find a way out, without completing his tasks, leaving the burden for Ron and Hermione to take up.

Harry stumbled away from the approaching heat till his back hit a wall. He felt heavy.

Smoke polluted his body and his lungs drowned, needing untainted air. He wanted to move, but his limbs struggled to co-operate. His heart hammered at a furious pace, but there wasn't enough air to match its demand.

Memories of training an army of students went up in flames. The taste of his first kiss scorched and blistered. In a room of lost and hidden things, a new memory rose from the smoke and embers.

The Room of Requirements would become his tomb.

It was as Harry slid down to the floor, panting and coughing, that he heard it.

_"Come here."_

A tall, life-sized frame now stood behind him, hung on the last stretch of unscathed wall. It hadn't been there before. However the strangest part was the painting within the frame.

It was a painting of nothing; a canvas stitched of black threads.

_"Come with me."_

Its whisper was ice-like and barely there, a chilling mist amongst the sea of fire. Harry narrowed his eyes and peered beyond the canvas, and that's when he saw it.

In the black, swirled an even darker black, twisting and morphing into a beckoning hand.

The painting emitted a subtle energy. It didn't feel evil, the way a horcrux did–it didn't feel like anything Harry had ever come across–and this unsettled him.

Under any other circumstance, he would never listen to chilled whispers, or take the hand of a faceless entity, but he would rather risk facing uncertainty than fiery death.

So when the shadowy hand emerged through the canvas, beckoning, Harry took it and followed.

Immediately upon stepping through the threshold, it felt like being swallowed whole, sinking and breaking into soft membrane. Behind him, the blaze conquered the room and moved toward the painting. He could feel heat stabbing his back as he pushed further in, but before it reached him, the void stitched itself up and sealed.

He now stood in a dark chasm, only he wasn't truly standing. There was no floor, walls or celling. All that existed was an energy which hummed and pulled him in one direction.

So Harry did all he could do.

He fell.

lll

**1943**

The corridors of Hogwarts were quiet with slumber and dreams, save for one.

One corridor echoed with confident footsteps, controlled and perfectly paced. Despite Tom Riddle's calm demeanor, a dangerous excitement stirred within him.

Horcrux.

The word alone sent volts through his body, searing his nerves with anticipation. The book from the restricted section may not have been forthcoming, but Slughorn had certainly been useful.

He needed a place of solace where he could absorb his newly acquired knowledge, somewhere fitted for his extracurricular studies because this _school_ of 'enlightenment' didn't permit unconventional thought.

So on the seventh floor, Tom walked past a wall and requested his needs.

When a door appeared, he entered.

The room which materialised was tasteful enough to suggest a cultured occupant but spartan enough to support functionality.

He walked towards the grand mahogany desk, sat down and pulled out his diary.

As he placed his inkwell and quill in front of him, an object in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

On top of the fireplace, hung a painting. He noted that it should not have been there because he had not requested artworks to be part of his academic sanctuary. The painting itself was inconspicuous and unassuming, so the Slytherin dismissed the anomaly. He had better things to focus on, like his ambition and new found excitement for the future.

Death held ultimate power by dictating its fate upon every living being, with no regard for the good or wicked, old or young. Tom found it archaic and repetitive, a series of tomes with the same ending. No matter how great the story, grand the deed, the characters were always delivered the same fate, both heroes and villains.

Well, he did not wish to be another forgotten story in ink, destined to follow the same path of fatality; he wished to be the scribe who wrote his own destiny.

His story will be different.

He will conquer immortality till his greatness eclipsed Death itself.

Casting his eyes back to his diary, Tom began to plot, his handwriting elegant and ink black.

Behind him, away from sight, the painting on the wall tremored and shook.

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A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this and I look forward to hearing your opinions :)

Antediluvian Poet


	2. Chapter 2

**.**

**Framed &amp; Fractured  
**Antediluvian Poet

* * *

Chapter Two

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lll

Tom Riddle sat at his grand desk, back straight and head tilted down. The scratching of his quill against parchment was the only sound, and the shadows flickering across his face from a candle, the only movement.

The presumed impossible was now a tangible taste in his mouth, sharp and attainable. He possessed a method, a passage to a world privileged to only the gods.

_Immortality._

What he could do with eternity–the knowledge he would acquire, the societies he would shape, the possibilities–were only limited to the pages in his book and the ink in his well.

If the cost of forever constituted taking a life, or seven, it was a compromise worth another's blood, and the agony of a torn soul.

Then, his hand came to an abrupt stop.

A pulse at the back of his neck pulled and tugged at his senses, leaving the uncanny feeling of something dancing in the corner of his eye.

He was not alone.

Casting his eyes over the room, Tom catalogued and assessed all he could see.

He found nothing.

lll

Riddle's day had been festered with self-serving smiles and nauseating politeness.

They followed him like shadows, sycophants grappling at the blinding light he exuded. How easily they played games of coy smiles and flattery just for a slither of his brilliance, a bite of the apple.

Little did they know, his light was fake and the fruit was rotting.

So Tom found himself in front of his sanctuary on the seventh floor, and conjured a place to rid himself of residual tension. But as he entered, a scratching, carving of wood, grated the silence. Tom looked towards the area above the fireplace.

The sound stopped.

He walked towards the couch with casual ease, but noted the same painting from his previous visit, had stayed.

lll

When it came to his daily façade, he excelled at his role as exemplary student and role model.

It was an easy game of mimicry, but feigning their constructs of morality–_day_ _after_ _day_–was tiresome. The play-acting collected debris on his skin–dust from patience which disguised his perpetual irritation–and he itched to brush it off.

So he fashioned a Room for comfort and quietude, somewhere his mind could retreat with no need for a mask.

Deep colours surrounded him in low lighting. The fireplace burned in welcome and the cushions beckoned. It would have been perfect, had there not been a relentless rattling cutting into his calm.

He stood still, and after a brief moment, turned to face the opposite wall. Tom Riddle's eyes narrowed. It took no more than a few silent strides till he stood in front of the source, the tugging coiling tight. He found it.

It was not a spectacular piece of art, the brush strokes were no more refined than any of its peers in the castle and the colours were not vibrant or attention-seeking. Really, it was an undistinguished and unremarkable painting of a dimly-lit study.

And for a moment, Tom could have mistaken the artwork for a muggle painting, lifeless, with no movement.

But then something shifted.

All of a sudden, the most notable thing about the painting, was what he _couldn't_ see. He leaned in and searched, and within the deepest corner, was a silhouette hiding in the darkest shadows.

The painting had an occupant.

Tom spoke. "Hello?"

There was no answer. The silhouette remained still, trying to bleed back into the paint.

A beat later, Tom leaned back from his inspection and walked back to his desk.

And when he left the room, a new curiosity moved to the forefront of his mind.

He did not see the cautious green eyes which followed him.

lll

No matter the shape or skin the room wore, the paraphernalia it carried, it failed to change one thing.

The painting.

Every time Tom entered the Room, as he read or wrote, planned or studied, he watched the space above the fireplace from the corner of his eyes.

His uninvited guest was the epitome of skittish, always hiding and evading. Although its actions were not intrusive, its mere presence was invasive.

The Room of Requirements had always been _his_, an asylum, a refuge to escape the assembly of mediocrity. But now, it had become a shared space, and that was not acceptable.

So once again, Tom stood in the corridor on the seventh floor and closed his eyes.

_I request a room which will satisfy my academic needs, a place where only my mind and I can find peace. But most importantly, I request for no artworks to be part of the rooms interior._

A door etched itself from within the stone, slim and tall. He entered with certainty, but when inside, he halted.

The Room disobeyed him.

Because there it was, in the same place.

Former curiosity bled into suspicion. There was either a flaw in the inner workings of the Room, or the paintings continuous presence held an underlying motive.

He decided to find out.

As Tom strode towards the canvas, the figure inside blew out a candle and vanished. When he reached it, his eyes narrowed and scrutinised.

And when he spoke, his voice controlled, the shadow tensed.

lll

Harry fell.

Energy swallowed him further down, propelling him through barriers which stretched then ripped as he descended.

Membrane after membrane severed until one layer did not.

He had reached the bottom.

With the cease of motion, Harry grew aware of how disconnected his body felt. It was as if his lungs had lodged up his throat, constricting his breathing. His body tingled, every stretch of skin pricked by pins and needles.

Heavy lids opened with caution, only to be met with blurry vision and tightened coughs. The floor felt smooth under his searching hands, and the scent of varnish rose with every brush. It was after he placed his glasses back on, did the sight in front of him clear.

How long he had been in there, he did not know.

The minutes seemed like hours, the hours seemed like days, and the days felt like only seconds.

All his time was filled with searching, inspecting and desperate rattling of a door knob, his only way out.

His activities were repetitive, dedicated and his attempt to hide his panic, obsessive. Anything to ignore the ghost of a young Dark Lord.

And he was succeeding, till the other leaned in and spoke:

_"I can see you."_

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**Authors Note: **The unexpected wave of attention and support for the prologue has left me stunned. I am eternally grateful to all who have reviewed, faved and followed this story. It has encouraged me to keep writing and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!

And a _huge_ thank you to my Beta **~CADEL**. I am honoured to have you involved in this project!

Constructive criticism, thoughts, questions and requests are welcome :)

_~ Poet_


	3. Chapter 3

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**Framed and Fractured**  
By Antediluvian Poet

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Chapter Three

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III

Harry burned.

He may have escaped the Fiendfyre, but it was still here with him, hiding in his mouth, his lungs, his heart. Its memory left a residue which clung to him, attempting to scorch his resolve and cinder it into ash, but another smell soon fought through the smoky shards.

Varnish and rich wood encircled him, slowly extinguishing the wildfire's imprint.

_Get up_.

Harry stood up on shaky legs, then he turned, and turned, and turned to survey his setting. _Three walls_. His gaze returned to the fourth front, and the ash in his mouth turned to soot.

Because the room was dismembered; missing one face. One wall was not a wall, but a gaping view into a separate room.

_Careful_. Harry's body tensed. He swept one more glance around the room–_searching, listening_–for signs of an immediate threat, but found none, so he moved forward.

Every step felt heavier than the last, as if his body was determined not to move closer to the anomaly, but he continued. He continued against the persistent ringing in his ears–_against the tightening air_–as the scene ahead grew nearer, as the darkness and light beyond the severed front, beckoned him in.

A figure sat in the materialized room, his back towards Harry. A hidden fireplace crackled and stole the silence, its light gilding shelves, tomes and the figure in gold. But the shadows also breathed_,_ and fought for dominance over the figure's silhouette.

And it was as Harry leaned in–the lines of the stranger's back _whispering_ to his memory–that he hit a barrier.

The unexpected obstruction jolted him. His eyes darted over the space in front of him, but there was nothing there, just air. _Trickery_. So he raised his palms, and pressed.

There _was_ something. He sucked in the air which deceived, raised a finger, and tapped.

A glass façade.

Uneasiness crawled into the pit of his gut, claws sharp and sinking deep.

The walls transparency was its only honest feature. Its clearness should have created a feeling of openness, but instead, Harry felt closed in–_exposed and trapped_–like a specimen put on display. Suddenly, he no longer wanted the stranger's attention.

He stepped back–away from the beckoning light, away from the stranger–and pivoted around to find a way out. Eyes sharpened at the only door. Walking to it felt longer than the few steps it took, as if his perception of the room disfigured itself through his need to leave. So he walked faster, every step swifter than the last, till he reached out and twisted the cold doorknob.

But it wouldn't open.

Harry pulled, but the door didn't budge. He chained the rising anxiety in his chest and pulled out his wand.

"_Alohamora_." A tingle spread through his body.

He resumed his attempts, rattled and pulled, but the door remained closed.

"_Reducto!_"

The room repelled the offensive magic and threw him back.

His head hit a hard edge. The ringing in his ears fused with the new pounding at the base of his skull, creating an internal melody. He had to leave, he was needed elsewhere, there was no time-

Something shifted. A movement from the other side.

_Hide._

Harry crouched beside a desk and willed his ragged breathing to slow into deep, quiet breaths. Then with slow caution, he craned his neck from the shadows and peered.

And there it was, as if a slide from his memory had projected itself into the other room. No–not a memory. A ghost. _Impossible._

The occupant from beyond the wall narrowed his eyes–sharper than his memory recalled–and scanned his vicinity, then turned back.

Harry didn't move.

He didn't move as the illusion from the other room picked up his belongings and left the scene. He didn't move when he heard the shutting of a door. He remained as still as a picture when the room around him darkened, leaving a lonesome candle as the only source for light. Fists tightened, branding his palms with red crescents.

And still, Harry didn't move.

III

How long he remained crouched in his niche, limbs tight, he did not know.

The image of Riddle's ghost seared his retinas, replaying an impossible scene to which Harry had no explanations. The confusion twisted his internal sense of the present, but his instincts screamed to run–_louder and louder_–until it broke through his disorientation. His form melted, his senses thawed and Harry was determined not to stick around for an encore. But with the return of his awareness, came the realisation that the room he was in had changed.

Harry snapped his head to the fourth wall.

No longer was it clear, but instead a black cavity; a wide mouth of never-ending darkness and frightening silence.

There was no crackling of a fireplace or warm light, but a new void which erased all traces of the scene before–_of the other_.

_Get out._ Survival rushed through his veins, his muscles–honed through a year on the run–and filled him with the energy needed to get up. This was his chance to leave, so Harry hurried to the door. He extended his arm, expecting to grasp cold metal, but instead found himself grappling nothing. Hands searched and felt, but the door was missing one vital part.

The doorknob.

Harry's skin grew cold.

_Find another way_.

Harry stepped back, then looked down at his wand. The room had reacted negatively to his previous use of magic, and the ache behind his head served as a reminder, but the knowledge that others were depending on him–_the lives of students, teachers, friends_–diluted his unease and overshadowed the promise of pain. So he aimed his wand with steady hands, then attacked the door.

"_Bombarda!_ "

Harry protected his head and ducked, expecting vengeful pain to course through him. But unlike before, there was no force which repelled him, no pain, no magic.

_Something's wrong._ The bonds restraining his anxiety shook and threatened to break. Harry refused to believe he couldn't use his magic, that he couldn't get out._ Don't give up._ So Harry swallowed his panic, then tried again, and again, and again.

Confringo. Diffindo. Expulso.

Nothing.

All of a sudden, the air seemed too thick, his breathing too heavy and the wand in his hand, too hollow. Light-headed and drained, he lifted his now unsteady hand, and whispered one word.

"_Lumos._"

But no light came.

III

The candle's flame was small and still.

Its light stretched thin across the room, but it never touched _that_ wall, never penetrated the new darkness which remained unforgiving in its stare.

Harry's wand felt cold in his hand._ Find another weapon_. He looked over to the desk which stood nearest to the wall which wasn't a wall.

The black front swirled darker the longer he stared into it. He didn't want to go near it, his memory of falling was too raw, but giving in to fear was a luxury. So he approached the other end of the room with cautious steps, eyes glued to the void.

The desk drawer yielded all the mundane things one would expect. Quills, ink, several parchments of paper, a pocket watch and one letter opener. Harry picked up the sharp letter opener, then looked at the pocket watch. He didn't need it, but he picked it up and tucked it away.

When Harry shut the drawer, the lone candle wobbled, then fell off its plate and onto its side. Out of instinct, Harry reached out to stand it back up, but his hand paused mid-air.

The fallen candle still burned, but its flame pointed towards the wrong direction.

Instead of upwards, the flame remained on its side, along with the rest of its body. But that wasn't the part which alarmed Harry.

No longer was the lit candle flickering and dancing as it should, but now a still statue of fire.

No longer were the shadows of the room swaying to the rhythm of its only flame, but now stuck in its last step. The room had a stillness it did not possess before–an unnatural pause.

The room was suspended. Frozen.

Harry backed away from the desk, from the wall–from the candle which remained on its side, _calm_ and _cold_–and ran to the door.

Magic wasn't an option, so he wielded the letter opener and searched for a keyhole, but there wasn't one. He then slid the blade down the crevice along the door, but nothing was wedged, nothing was jammed. The door simply didn't want to open. _Didn't want him to leave._

Door hinges. Harry nudged the underside of the hinges in an attempt to push them out of their sockets, but the metal stood its ground, so he dug the blade into the meat of the door. He'd carve his way out if he had to, but no matter how hard he dug, cut and jabbed, the wood remained_ unmarred, unscathed and unhurt._

His anxiety finally broke free from its chains. The room invaded his breathing space and the shadows seemed to encircle him.

_Breathe._ Harry slid to the floor, and focused on the air which struggled to enter his lungs. _Just Breathe._ And he tried, but there it was again, smoky shards which fogged and sliced his lungs. Feeling unprepared for whatever may happen next, Harry grasped the small letter opener in one hand, and his impotent wand in the other.

The fourth wall faced him–an unsympathetic black–and Harry stared back, waiting.

_Trickery and illusions. A fire, but no flame. A door, but no way out._

III

Time continued to echo a double layered symphony, where true time danced with its faster and twisted counterpart.

Around him, the room remained frozen, a still photograph he could touch, but not change.

Harry kept his eyes on the room–its corners, its unmoving shadows–while he continued his attempt to scrape wood around the door hinge. Yet it made no difference, as if he was stabbing a diamond slab with a needle. But the motion kept him busy, kept him from staring at the void, and at the spot where a doorknob should have been.

_A door, but no way out..._

But most importantly, it kept him moving, unlike the rest of his surroundings.

But then, something did move.

Around him, the rooms shadows began to thaw and shift, stepping back into their dance as if they had never stopped. Across the room, light swayed, drawing Harry's attention to the desk, to the candle.

The dead flame now burned a real fire, flickering upwards and fighting its fallen position. If the room had been holding its breath, it now breathed. The room was no longer frozen. And on the desk, under the flames intimate heat, was a darkening burn mark on wood.

_Unmarred, unscathed, unhurt..._

Harry stared at the desk, then dragged the letter opener across the wooden surface. A satisfying scrape sung as a long cut appeared.

Marred, scathed, hurt. _A way out._

And it was as the wood splintered, his wand hummed with warmth in his pocket, no longer a prop. Harry pulled it out with eagerness, and pointed it.

"_Lumos._"

And there was light.

But as hope bloomed, the fourth wall tremored, and the black void swirled.

The dark wall lightened into an opaque grey, then grew clearer and clearer. The room brightened, opening itself, but to what, Harry didn't know. Then, when the wall finally became transparent, another room materialised.

The same crackling of a fireplace, the same furnishings, but there was one distinct difference. No one was present. _No illusion to taunt his sanity._

_Ignore the room and return to the door._ And Harry did, but the room breathed one more surprise.

The doorknob was back.

Even with the return of his magic, Harry knew the room wouldn't accept his attacks. Small uses of magic, like _Lumos,_ hadn't hurt him, but the stronger spells attracted pain. He'd have to try a different method, a different way to hurt the room.

_Carve it._

Harry stabbed the wood around the door hinges, and dug into its flesh. Scrapes of wood fell to the floor. _A way out_. It would be slow, but wood was softer than diamond, and his resolve was stronger than both materials combined.

So Harry endured, despite the straining in his wrist, and scraped his way closer to home.

He only stopped when controlled footsteps entered the other room.

III

Harry hid, and watched as the tall figure walked gracefully across the room to the couch.

_It's just an illusion, he's not real. You destroyed it._ Harry closed his eyes hard, then opened them, as if willing the vision ahead to disappear, but only clarity followed.

The ghost sat down. _Dictator. Maniac. Inhuman._

And long fingers opened a book to its marked page. _Murderer._

But instead of reading, the other leaned further into the couch, reclined his head back, and closed his eyes.

His features were unguarded, his posture relaxed, but even from the other room, Harry could feel the others magic.

Voldemort's magical signature was an oppressive force, a diseased and mutated taste which polluted the air. But the young man in front of him felt different. Instead of oppressive, his magic felt like reinforced steel-sharp, unblemished and _unbroken_. The only familiar aura was burning ambition. Ambition that would deform into insanity.

But that wasn't the only notable difference. This variant _looked_ different from the one in his memory, from the boy in the diary.

In the Chamber of Secrets, there was a pallor to the young dark lord's skin, an unnatural translucency. However, the version in front of him–though still pale–possessed the look of skin where blood coursed underneath; the look of someone _alive_.

Not a ghost.

But a flawless replica of a boy now dead.

III

Harry laid on the floor, and watched the resurrected imprint in the other room.

On the desk, the candle still remained fallen, and the darkening burn deepened, bruising varnish and wood.

It was surreal to see the embodiment of so much suffering and death sit there in Hogwarts robes, as if the world wasn't burning, as if Harry was the one out of his mind.

He waited for abnormal red eyes to turn towards him, for it to transform into a monster and laugh at his predicament. But the other remained quiet, absorbed with his reading, and gave no indication of his existence. The perfect imitation of a student. Innocent. _Lies. Illusions._

The imposter's _normal_ eyes remained fixated on his reading material, but Harry decided it was time to look away. He had the unnerving feeling that if he stared too long, his gaze would be returned. Even if Riddle was being impersonated, Harry didn't want attention until he figured out if the other was an actual threat. After reaching the halfway mark of his book, the imitation stood up, collected his belongings, and made his way to a section of the room Harry couldn't see.

A door opened, then shut, and the scene beyond the glass slowly faded, then dimmed.

The wall deepened into darkness, returning to black.

The shadows stilled once more, the doorknob disappeared, and the progress he'd made on the door–_marks, etchings, scrapes_–faded, returning to their original and undamaged state.

On the desk, the fallen candle now froze, and the burn on the desk vanished, as if never there.

_Unmarred, unscathed, unhurt._

III

The wardrobe stood across the desk, and next to the void.

It was tall, made of rich wood with delicate engravings on closed doors.

Harry didn't open it.

III

He felt no tiredness, no hunger, no need to perform other bodily necessities.

He didn't trust the slim bed which hugged the safest wall, its soft and inviting sheets, or the dark space which occupied underneath the bed frame.

He refused to trust the other wooden bodies in the room, so he positioned the only chair against the door and sat with unsleeping eyes.

_Shadows, shadows everywhere._

III

Though voiceless, the fourth wall still spoke.

Its inky orifice swelled with promises of more illusions and deception. But did it also serve another purpose? Had his trepidation of it clouded the possibilities presented in front of him. _A way out?_

He remembered his fall into emptiness, the seemingly endless drop. Harry didn't want to fall again, but he found himself moving from his fort, and edging closer to the wall.

He stood on the threshold between the small room and nothingness.

_This could be a way back._

So Harry leaned forward, preparing himself to fall, to plunge and plummet through membranes and into another abyss.

He'd been unprepared to fall the first time, but this time, he was unprepared to meet solidity. A barrier still remained. Relief shot through him, knowing he wouldn't be swallowed again by darkness, but disappointment laced it. He was still trapped.

Harry slid down against sealed obsidian, and sat behind a backdrop of dark questions and never-ending night.

III

The pocket watch was broken. Time didn't move within its body. But Harry still held its carcass within tight fists.

III

_"Lumos._"

No light.

III

Time was still unsynchronized. He estimated he'd been in the room for more than two days but less than five.

Then Riddle came back, and with his return, the room unfroze, bringing back a sense of true time. The black wall lightened, the doorknob appeared, and Harry's magic returned.

Harry breathed in the same air, but it smelt different, more open and fresh. The dark and despair melted off his bones and determination steeled over him. But it seemed that any chance he had of escaping interlocked with the risk of being discovered by Voldemort's past shade.

_Be smart._ He knew the room could be affected now, could be touched and changed, but how much time he had depended solely on Riddle's presence. So Harry inspected the imposter.

A collection of expressions shadowed Riddle's face. His brows were heavy, his eyes the colour of irritation and weariness. Slim fingers rotated circles on temples, kneading out tension. Troubled. Tired. _But not real. Stop watching._ So Harry quickly moved towards the door.

There was a keyhole. _Does this mean there's a key somewhere?_

He didn't want to waste time looking, so Harry inserted the pointed end of the letter opener into the new hole, and twisted. No click, no sound to indicate unlocking. Keep trying.

His hands felt clumsy, unsteady and moist with sweat. His childhood had been surrounded by padlocks and confinement, but he'd never figured out how to unlock them. Part fear and part acceptance. _You're not there anymore. Focus._ However, whether it was due to his inexperience with locks, his swarming memories of imprisonment, or the door itself, it still didn't open.

Anxiety mutated into frustration.

He was sick of this room. Sick of _stagnating_ in still air, sick of being frozen in an unnatural scape where he existed as an inanimate object. To hell with concealment and invisibility.

Harry rattled the doorknob, his mind suddenly persuaded that sheer force alone could let him out,_ let him live._

He should have held onto reason, because that's when_ he_ spoke.

"_Hello?"_ The question was left open and unanswered.

Harry hid under the bed, regretting his moment of madness, and hoped he hadn't made his predicament worse. But he didn't miss the way Riddle's eyes followed his movement in the shadows.

_He knows you're here._

And as his time ran out, and the room darkened, closing itself again, he realised the prospect of being trapped in stasis again was more unbearable than being trapped with a killer.

III

Tom Riddle was back, and walking straight towards Harry.

_He knows you're here!_

Harry blew out the candle's flame, cutting off light. But it didn't stop Riddle from stalking towards his direction, eyes narrowed and filled with suspicion.

He hid in the darkest shadows, but it didn't feel dark enough. He still felt exposed and naked.

The Slytherin now stood in front of the glass façade, intimidating in size, his presence tangible, corporal and too real. Is this real? _Is he really Riddle?_

That thought alone, the implications, drowned him. How was it possible for Riddle to have survived? Another horcrux? No. _Something else._

A horrible sensation rose in his throat and constricted his breathing. What if Harry had been the one looking at everything backwards? What if _Harry_ was the anomaly, the illusion, the trickery.

His world tipped. _Where_ was he really? What reality had he stumbled upon?

And it was during his internal turbulence, where the foundations of his calm trembled and quaked, that Riddle spoke.

"I can see you."

His luck had run out. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. He was cornered, scrutinized and targeted by a ghost which wasn't a ghost, through a wall which wasn't a wall.

_Survive._

It was pure instinct when he pulled out his wand, and desperation when he aimed it directly at his prophesised executioner.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

III

The painting attacked him.

Tom Riddle non-verbally shielded himself, a reflex, but not soon enough.

A trail of magic brushed against his cheek. It was weak and stillborn, but that was not what Riddle focused on.

The painting had _attacked_ him.

It shouldn't have been able to, but the stinging on his cheek proved otherwise.

A painted boy with a wand. And magic. _Real_ magic which broke through its canvas and entered the realm of the living.

There was something worth studying here. _Worth collecting_. His eyes gleamed with interest and caution, but only politeness bled through his voice.

"I believe an introduction has been long overdue."

III

Harry heard the other's words, and froze. _What have I done?_

And as pandemonium broke out in Harry's mind, the dead pocket watch he'd tucked away earlier, began to tick.

.  
.

* * *

A/N: Your reviews, your favourites and your follows have helped me create every line in this chapter. I have met incredibly lovely fellow readers, writers and supporters through this story, and it has inspired me to continue. _You have all become my muse._

Speaking of inspiration, _LAS-T_ from deviantart has created a gift art for this story: A picture of Tom Riddle! Please check it out through a link on my profile :)

And once again, many thanks to my creative consultant, the honourable ~CADEL.

To all who have read this far, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I'd be thrilled if you shared your thoughts and opinions with me!  
~Poet


	4. Chapter 4

**.**

**\- Framed &amp; Fractured -**

Antediluvian Poet

* * *

Chapter Four

* * *

III

"I believe an introduction has been long overdue."

The Room's air tightened as Riddle approached the painting, slicing through seized tension with ease.

"My name is Tom Riddle."

The boy in the painting looked up from his fallen position on old floorboards and paled. His chest heaved up and down in exaggerated shifts, a reminder it was not a still portrait.

Riddle stepped closer.

Then a hoarse voice spoke from within the canvas. "_Stay away from me_."

The painted boy detangled his limbs and shuffled back in haste, movements stilted and strained, a cunning imitation of pain.

_It's threatened. Subdue it._

So he took a composed step back and slid his wand within the confines of his robes. Then, with arms hidden behind his back, Riddle inspected the painting before him.

The frame was an aged and defeated gold, muddy in contrast to Hogwarts' illustrious frames.

Darkness shrouded the painted study, concealed its colours and presented the impression of a monotonous and dim palette.

There was no careful symmetry, no wise composition or alluring brilliance. The artist had failed to establish presence, had failed to _arouse_ and _evoke_.

But then Riddle caught movement, and his gaze sharpened once more upon the huddled boy within.

The other's hair merged with the dark. Odd styled clothing wore tears, soot and suspicious burns. Round spectacles encircled alert eyes.

The painted figure shifted under his scrutiny, and dragged itself away in a desperate and pitiful manner.

In every essence, the painting was mediocre, lacking _everything_ and evoking _nothing_. He would not have spared it a second glance–

Had there not been a wand grasped tight in the painting's hand.

And in that moment, Tom remembered a time he wasn't so impartial, a time he _was evoked_–he remembered the watercolour painting hung in Wool's Orphanage:

A painting of children playing and smiling beside a seaside.

The matrons and staff were so proud of owning such _fine_ art, as if its mere existence and presence elevated the orphanages' dismal standards.

But it didn't.

All it did was mock, mislead and deceive.

Because the painting promised happiness, acceptance,_ love._ It promised a false childhood bathed in golden sunlight and laughter. It promised a distorted and dishonest reality, a life different to the misery which awaited him with every forced return. For all the paintings supposed prestige, it failed to erase the stench of rotting wood, sate perpetual hunger or mute the cries of cold children.

The promise _was a lie._

But then he came to Hogwarts.

And the sheer potential of magic–the unlimited realities and opportunities–were illustrated within every magical frame and portrait. Here in the castle, the paintings promised something grander, _greater_ than happiness or love.

They promised Power and Knowledge.

Riddle looked back to the painting in front of him, to the painting which held no beauty, no grandeur, yet still _pulled_ his senses. He scrutinised the painted boy in tattered and dirtied clothing, at the wand held within the others hand.

_What is your promise?_

But even as curious potential presented itself, caution and weariness drilled into his bones like an old friend.

Because despite its betrayal, the painting hung in Wool's Orphanage had taught him one vital lesson, exposed a truth which embedded deep within his subconscious:

_Promises were empty lies till delivered true._

"You attacked me." Not an accusation, but a statement.

The painted boy tensed, but replied low and direct. "I don't like being stared at."

Riddle's tone was light. "Forgive me–I was under the impression all paintings enjoyed being admired, and seeing as your painting is the only one in this room," _even after I requested you gone_, "you've drawn my attention."

A plethora of emotions–too quick to categorise–flickered across the paintings face. It looked at its surroundings as if something had shifted, as if his words unveiled a revelation.

Riddle continued, words selective and tone neutral. "How did you come by this room?" _Intrusive_. "There's never been another painting here before yours."

The painted figure grabbed the desk beside it, and stood. Shoulders and legs widened.

"I fell in."

Tom stored the information away. "Are you lost?"

Silence.

So with velvet politeness, he delivered his next lines.

"Would it be possible for you to occupy a different frame? As a Prefect here at Hogwarts, I could help you find another area in the castle more to your liking."

An offer._ A test._

Painted eyes shifted behind to a closed door within its own study, then frowned–

Riddle edged closer in its moment of distraction.

–then spectacled eyes darted back, glare too personal in its dislike. "_No thanks._"

A decline.

Riddle leveled his gaze, but his words remained courteous."Should you change your mind, please don't hesitate to ask for assistance."

But before turning, he asked one more question:

"Do you have a name?"

The painted boy blinked, blank-stared as if caught off guard by the mundane question. Eyes flickered, then it answered.

"No."

_It lies._

So he leaned in slow, watched how the painting _tensed_–how shoulders _braced_–yet refused to retreat. He smiled slow, his next words a promise–

"Well then, I look forward to becoming better acquainted."

Riddle turned away from the painting, wand back in his hand as he made his way toward his desk, aware of the others piercing gaze slicing his back.

_You should have left when you had the chance._

III

Harry's knuckles bruised white, his grip on the desk bone tight.

_Don't show any signs of weakness._

Legs and shoulders remained defensive and locked as he tracked Riddle's retreating form.

Only after Riddle was no longer in sight–when the threat _screaming_ in his pulse lessened–did he allow his legs to collapse from the brutal shards of _pain pain pain_ blazing through his body.

Knees hit the ground–

Small seizures vibrated through his bones and tremored up his spine–

A wetness dripped from his nose and coated his lips.

Harry swiped the moisture away, only to find his palm _smeared_ with his own blood, the red a _flare_ against monotones.

The _'Expelliarmus'_ triggered this.

_This_ was the price of pushing the room's magical boundaries, the _consequence_ of casting an offensive spell within its confines, and through the fourth wall–

No.

From within a_ painting._

_...'Do you have a name?'_

And Voldemort didn't know him, didn't recognise him. The other couldn't be a horcrux, or a ghost, but somehow _just_ Tom Riddle.

_'Come here … come with me...'_ A hand beckoning him into a canvas of black nothingness as the Room of Requirements burned.

_…'Are you lost?'_

Where had the painting taken him? What if it _had_ been a dangerous relic, hidden away in the Room of Lost and Hidden Things for a reason.

_I didn't have a choice._ Not amongst the Fiendfyre and smoke and certain death.

_Tick Tock. Tick Tock._

The dead pocket watch, only it was no longer _dead._

With pain-tremored hands, Harry pulled the brass body from his pocket.

Ticks pulsed through his palm, rhythm smooth and steadied. With each beat, his unease untwined and loosened as he allowed himself to savour the sensation of true measurement–_of real time_–instead of the rooms distorted mockery of it.

_It's too dark. Find light._

Harry limped towards the candle on the desk.

Once reached, and with the candles' restless light shifting over the pocket watch, Harry pressed down on a knob_–click–_then watched as it opened.

Thin hands moved to a normal tempo.

Elegant numbers_–poised and black–_filled its face, but something struck Harry as off.

Its numbers appeared misaligned, shifted by the tiniest margin, pushed closer into a tighter circle.

So he counted.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve..._

Resting on his blood-stained palm, the pocket watch did not display twelve hours on its face–

_But thirteen._

And as a new trickle of blood ran from his nose–as it _dripped_ and _smeared_ onto the dishonest glass face–Harry could only watch as thin hands _stalked_ its black-numbered path, till it finally struck _one o'clock–_

Then stopped.

III

The fireplace crackled with heat, spitting angered shards of ember into the air.

Riddle remained seated in front of the Room's conjured mahogany desk, quill in hand, nib hovering over a page in his diary.

A droplet of ink loomed heavy from the quill's black-tipped mouth–_threatening to fall_–but Riddle's gaze remained transfixed upon old inked words on the parchment below, upon another stolen promise.

_House of Gaunt._

One of the Sacred-Twenty Eight. A pure-blood lineage. Direct descendants to Salazar Slytherin himself.

But even as old magical blood surged through his veins–his Parseltongue a _testament_ of his true line–he was _barred_ his birthright, denied_ full_ sanction into wizarding society.

All because he lacked a pure-blood name.

It wasn't enough that his weak mother _denounced_ herself with a muggle, but to be allotted a pathetic muggle's name, one with _no power, no influence, no legacy–_

Burdened ink fell heavy from the quill's mouth.

The drop bled across House of Gaunt, mutating old inked words until it surrendered, until the old House name blackened and extinguished beneath merciless ink.

If a great future lied within a name, then he'd construct a new identity, a grand moniker, one to supersede _all_ legacies and lineages, one _never_ to be misconceived as anything but _great_.

_Find the Chamber of Secrets. Eliminate the weak. Declare your power._

Behind him, a chair scraped, the sound sudden and rude. Metal reverberated against wooden floorboards he knew weren't from his Room.

Riddle clenched his jaw, placed his quill down beside his wand on the desk, then turned to his uninvited guest.

_Is it a threat?_

Despite possessing a wand and the ability to cast magic, the painting had failed to cause true damage.

And even when he'd edged closer to the painting–_a provoke through measured proximity_–the painted boy hadn't attacked again despite the palpable distress bleeding from the canvas.

_Weak. Timid. Anxious. A recluse._

However, no matter how strange it behaved, or despite its possession of a magically imbued wand, its ultimate refusal to leave its current frame confined it within the Room.

And the Room of Requirement was _his domain_, a knowledge he'd deciphered and kept hidden. As long as the painting chose to stay, the matter was contained, and _his_ to study in private.

Quill still thirsty with ink, he wrote one reminder in his diary:

_'Gargoyle: Tomorrow Night'._

Then he glanced back at the occupant in the painting.

Spectacled eyes no longer followed him, but instead remained focused on a small object lying near its feet.

_Is it a threat?_

No.

True threat was ignorance.

III

The pocket watch dropped from Harry's hand, brass clinking and echoing across the study's painted floor.

_It's just a watch–it can't hurt you._

The silent '_yet_' which shadowed his thought only intensified his apprehension, but still, Harry bent down and retrieved the fallen brass body.

_Inanimate. Cold. Dead._

Even as it laid innocent on his palm–_silent once more_–the brass felt tainted with memories of hurried ticks across its deceiving face, of its thirteen hours and hand frozen on one o'clock.

_What triggered it? What does it mean?_

Harry felt foolish. He shouldn't have felt betrayed by the small timepiece, shouldn't have hoped it was immune to the room's trickery–because from the beginning, the room remained faithful to its own laws, played games to rules he didn't know.

_Don't let your guard down again._

No longer comfortable, Harry relinquished the watch and placed it beside the candle, unwilling to disturb its sleep, afraid to _awaken_ it from its slumber–

And then the candle stopped flickering, the fourth wall sealed and the room darkened.

Riddle had left.

_'...you've drawn my attention…I look forward to becoming better acquainted.'_

Harry had to leave.

But using his magic had inflicted unforeseeable injuries, leaving him vulnerable and powerless. And the door remained stubborn, remained locked–

_Wait._

He turned to the door.

The keyhole hadn't disappeared.

_A keyhole. A key. Search the room._

Harry kneeled in front of the bed hugging the safest wall.

He stretched his fingers under the bed frame, skin tingling with exposure as he brushed against cold floorboards, waiting for something to reach out, to _pull him under into shadows–_

But it remained bare.

He searched the desk next; behind, within and under. Yet it yielded no more secrets.

So he turned the next wooden body; the shelf.

Tall and slim, its shelves were unoccupied, carrying only dust. But before he turned away, the edges of spines–laid almost out of view–peeked from the highest ledge.

Harry _reached._

The first book was thin and an aged brown.

There were no words within it, only lines; intricate and intersecting with one another, accompanied with sigils, runes and other markings. _Hermione would probably know what these meant–_

But she wasn't here.

Harry closed the book and placed it down on the desk.

The second book was a deep and wise green, its spine battered, so he opened it with care.

His eyes grew wide–

_Coal-etched wings. Fortified scales. Razor-sharp talons._

The sketch seemed so vivid and life-like, that the creature didn't seem drawn, but instead _ensnared within the page._

And there were several more drawings; page after page of magical creatures, beasts and monsters Harry's mind could've never conjured into existence, and hoped weren't _real_.

Then a familiar creature caught his attention.

Harry's fingertips brushed over warm, flamed feathers and loyal eyes.

_Fawkes._

Page left opened on the Phoenix, Harry made his way over to the shelf and reached for another hidden item.

The last book was royal blue, with remnants of gilded gold etched on its cover.

And within, its pages were hedged with scribbled notes, observations and thoughts; _on spells, on potions, on magical theories._

Harry flicked through the pages, through unfamiliar topics and disciplines, till a word he hadn't seen since his first year at Hogwarts appeared.

Heading bold, written in scrawled penmanship, it read:

_Alchemy._

And at the bottom of the page, almost lost and buried amongst symbols, was one _misplaced_ drawing.

The back of Harry's neck sharpened with cold warning as he stared at the _displaced_ sketch, as he scrutinised its tall familiar form, its engraved and closed doors–

Then he turned his head to the other side of the study–_to the black void_–and faced the last wooden body in the room.

The wardrobe.

_I don't want to open it._

He didn't want to open it, didn't want to _unleash_ anymore trickeries or expose himself to more hidden abnormalities the room might still have. Because unlike the locked door, the wardrobe was a _choice_, a door he _chose_ to leave unexplored.

But here it was, drawn in a book it had no reason to be in, unclear whether it was a warning, or–

_A clue. A key. A way out._

Legs reluctant but mind resolved, Harry moved towards the unwelcoming wardrobe, grabbed its cold handles–

_Don't let your guard down._

–and pulled it open.

III

Headmaster Dippet's voice rang loud and clear over the clatter of forks and plates in the Great Hall.

"A reminder to all Fifth year students: in preparations to your upcoming _OWLs_ , please arrange a meeting with your Head of House to receive counsel on Sixth and Seventh Year Electives _and_ required N.E.W.T level classes relevant to your desired career paths."

Riddle glanced up at the Potions Master.

It seemed he'd be paying Slughorn another visit.

III

After the student body gorged themselves in the Hall and retired to their Common rooms, Riddle made his way to Slughorn's office.

But as he stepped onto the appropriate staircase, he spied two students in a corner bruised with shadows.

One handed the other a vial, and the sound of coins followed.

And as the staircase swiveled him away from the scene, Riddle frowned as he caught a glimpse of something _gold_ flicker into the air above them.

III

"Sorry Tom, but now is not a good time for a chat–papers to mark and all!"

_Liar._

Slughorn may have greeted him in his usual manner, but Riddle didn't miss the nervous sheen on the older man's forehead, or that the door to his study remained half-closed, an invitation absent.

"My apologies for interrupting. When would be a more appropriate time to discuss N.E.W.T electives with you?"

Fingers relaxed off the door frame. "_Oh right!_ Yes of course–come in!"

Something sweet and thick dominated the study's usual scent of rosemary and thyme.

On a mantle behind Slughorn's desk, a new golden clock ticked.

"Would you like some cinnamon and honey tea?" Slughorn offered as he poured more into his own cup.

Riddle eyed the brew, and as wisps of steam rose and swirled from the pot, so did an old memory–

_Of the staff at the orphanage. Of a sweet-scented brew with clung to their tongues as they lied, as they served him bittered and watered-down imitations of the brew they hoarded in secret and deemed too good for a freak like him–_

The memory pervaded the scent, evaporating all desire to _consume_ and _ingest_ the same drink as _them_, to partake in their self-indulgent greed and savoured selfishness.

Slughorn waited for a response.

_Lie. Appease._

"Yes please."

Slughorn poured the saccharine brew into a second teacup.

The stench assaulted him.

"As you know, the results from your OWLs will heavily affect which electives you may pick up, drop or continue studying." The older man handed him his cup. "But with your current grades, I'm sure you'll have absolutely _no trouble_ getting into your desired classes!"

_Appeal to his ego._

"It's the teachers and their endless efforts I should be thanking."

His Head of House beamed. "You're too modest my boy! A brilliant mind, first in all your classes, _and_ a Prefect–" The Potions Master leaned forward. "The wizarding world will gain something _great_ from such a promising individual! I only hope to help you get there."

_Return the praise._

"You've given me more than you know sir."

_Horcrux._

Slughorn glowed with the compliment. "So, were there any electives in particular you wished to discuss?"

"Just one."

Riddle held the teacup within his palms, and traced the porcelain's rim. "There's a rather _elusive_ elective I came across in the library, an elective I wasn't aware had been taught in Hogwarts' academic past..."

"Oh?"

The golden clock ticked louder.

"Alchemy."

"Ah yes–a_ fascinating_ subject! From my knowledge, it has only been taught _three times_ in Hogwarts' history."

The fireplace glowed eager and bright. "Can it still be taken as an elective?"

Slughorn nodded. "It is possible..."

_Knowledge._

_Endless possibilities._

_Transformation–_

"–but highly unlikely."

The porcelain in Riddle's hands grew cold. "I don't understand sir."

"Alchemy is not an open elective you see. It requires an invitation_._"

Riddle leaned forward. "What does one need to do to receive an invitation?"

Slughorn clasped his hands together.

"Achieve '_Oustanding'_ in _all_ their OWL exams. Only the brightest students are granted an official invite."

_Effortless. Attainable._

"–something I have no doubt you can achieve Tom, but there must be a minimum of seven students in your year group to have also achieved the required grades–_and accept the invitatio_n–in order for the elective to exist."

_Persuade._

Riddle pushed with logic. "Wouldn't be preferable to teach a dedicated few, small as it may be, rather than fixate on how many students take a class? Other electives have been known to carry less numbers."

Slughorn nodded.

"It would be simpler–yes–but Alchemy is also an _exclusive_ elective. This means the school must _hire_ a Master Alchemist to teach as a guest professor–and without the required number of students, Hogwarts simply cannot fund it."

The fireplace grew restless, its flames urgent, but Riddle continued with calm purpose, words careful.

"May I study it in my own free time, if given relevant textbooks? The theory alone would be compelling."

Slughorn downed the rest of his tea, then frowned in genuine sympathy.

"I'm afraid the textbooks are only given _by_ the Alchemist himself, and even then, students are monitored to ensure knowledge isn't abused." Then Slughorn turned to the fireplace, expression deep. "Terrible things have been achieved in the past with its knowledge."

_Denied. Barred. Knowledge wasted–_

"–but there _is_ someone in the castle you can appeal to, a past student out of the three year groups to have been mentored by _Nicholas Flammel_ himself."

"Who, sir?"

"Professor Dumbledore."

The golden clock laughed in mockery.

"–and I'm sure he'll be pleased to share his knowledge with a brilliant student such as yourself"

Riddle sipped from the porcelain's cold rim, and swallowed the sweet brew which burnt and bittered his throat.

Then a quiet grinding filled the air.

He looked above Slughorn's fireplace and found the source of the sound; a magical painting of an old Potions Master in his workshop.

Riddle watched the painted man add mortar-crushed rose petals into his cauldron.

"Can he hear us? Does he listen?"

Slughorn looked back at the forgotten painting in his study. "Oh, I suppose he could, but frankly, he's more absorbed in his work." Then his Head of House leaned in, eyes filled with mirth. "But between you and I, he's been working on the same project for_ decades_."

Riddle tilted his head. "Can they not progress forward?"

Slughorn poured a third serving for himself. "Not quite. They mainly socialise, but only as shades of their former selves–_detailed reflections, yes_–but a fraction of who their originals were."

Riddle's eyes bore into the scene within the frame, to the old man's painted wand.

"And what are the limits to their magic?"

The potions master hummed into his cup as he drank. "Simple spells, nothing too complex, though it has been observed that the more powerful they were when alive _does_ seem to expand their magical capabilities."

Riddle followed the border of the old man's frame, the fireplace underneath casting inflamed colours onto its ornate ridges.

"And this magic, can it leave their frames? Materialise within our own realm?"

Slughorn frowned.

"I'm afraid _that's_ impossible. The very nature of their preservation is magically infused to their canvas–It cannot be transferred out." Then the potions master laughed. "Could you imagine the _chaos_ if they could!"

The golden clock ticked closer to its next hour as Slughorn continued.

"Even if it were possible, no magic can duplicate true life, or its greatest instinct–the will to survive."

Both student and teacher looked up at the painting.

Then the golden clock began to chime.

"Essentially, _they have no soul."_

III

With a slow and sinister creak, the wardrobe spread its doors wide open.

A torrent of blood raced through Harry's veins, feeding his heart a rapid beat as he readied himself for _more trickeries, more illusions–_

_Don't let your guard down!_

Harry shot his arm up and aimed the letter opener towards the dark interior ahead.

And that's when he found something lurking within the shadows.

_Arms._

_Shoulders._

_A torso._

Harry struck first–

And it attacked back with a surge of dust which dried the moisture down his throat, seared his lungs and set off a coughing fit.

_Keep fighting!_ Harry lunged at the entity once more and stabbed.

...And then a stale stench crawled out from within the wardrobe's depth.

Blade still raised, Harry struck one last time, but the shadowed stranger didn't scream, didn't fight back.

Instead, the entity swayed, passive and unflinching through the veil of dust which surrendered and fell around it.

Not a person.

_A hung robe._

The sound of his own harsh breaths filled his ears. His body remained on high alert, tensed and distrustful.

_Search the wardrobe._

Eyes tracking the still-swaying robe–_could still be a trick, could still be dangerous_–Harry rushed his search of the wardrobe's interiors, of its dark sides and deep corners.

Empty. No key.

Aside for the robe–

_Wait._

Harry edged closer to the stale stench, to the dust-ridden robe hung like a battered and blackened corpse.

Then with cautious hands, he ransacked its pockets till the remains yielded a small item. Once seized, he snatched it from the wardrobe's clutch and carried it to the desk where the candle waited.

Wooden and plain, the size of two palms, the box gave little away to what it hid inside.

_A key? A way out?_

Harry unclasped its latch, lifted its lid, and opened another piece from the deceptive room.

The contents stared up at him.

Small parchments, aged and rolled, piled on top of one another within the box.

Scrolls.

He dipped his fingers in, picked up one thin scroll, held it close to the candle's frozen yet eager light, and unrolled the delicate paper:

_They fear my power, fear what I can do._  
_They fear who I am, so I hide in this room._  
_Beyond these walls, lurk my demons embalmed._  
_My will is my power, I cannot be harmed._

Energy _stirred_ across the inscribed words, thrumming with remnants of an ancient power. The hair on his arms grew taunt and tall, skin blistered with chills from the scrolls aura–

_'They fear my power, fear what I can do...'_

His pulse hammered loud in his ears–

_'They fear who I am, so I hide in this room...'_

Harry's face drained of colour as he looked up from the old parchment, and as the words hollowed deep in his mind.

...I hide in this room.

Someone–

Or _something–_

_Was here._

Harry hunted his surrounding space with wide eyes; at the frozen shadows and dark corners, at the safe bed he'd stuck his hand beneath only minutes ago, at the still-gaping wardrobe–_spread wide and open_–and at its corpse-like robe staring back at him.

_Close the doors!_

He ran to the wardrobe and slammed its doors shut–_sealing it once more–_but it didn't dampen the dread rushing through him. Then slowly, he faced the door on the other side of the room, the door which locked him in, the door which kept him _imprisoned–_

_'Beyond these walls, lurk my demons embalmed...'_

–or kept something out.

Harry backed away from both doors and slammed into the desk, knocking down one book to the floor.

He knew the painting was empty. He'd been isolated within it for days, but how long till that changed?

_There's no one here, there's no one here there's no one here–_

Except for Tom Riddle.

_'...you've drawn my attention…I look forward to becoming better acquainted.'_

The small parchment remained crumpled and cold within his fist, its quiet energy breathing against his chilled skin.

And then the black wall lightened–_like curtains on a stage_–and the candle _flickered and bowed_, as the painting performed its dictated play once more.

Riddle was coming back.

Instead of protecting himself, he'd gained Riddle's intrigue and suspicion, but could no longer hide, could no longer _feign insignificance._

He had failed to find a key; a key to a door he wasn't sure he wanted to unlock anymore, unsure whether it would lead him home, or lead him to more trickeries, to more illusions–

_To monsters._

And he had no other weapon aside from a letter opener, no form of protection from a young Dark Lord, or from the promised treacheries waiting beyond the locked door.

_What do I do?_

The candle danced and casted its light; over the slumbering pocket watch, over the aged brown book of _intricate lines_, over the emerald book with a battered spine–page still opened on a sketch of a Phoenix with _flamed feathers_ and _kind eyes–_

And onto the floorboards, over the fallen royal blue book filled with magical notes and experiments–

The fourth wall was now clear. And on the other side, a familiar room, a familiar crackling of a fireplace–

And the creaking of an opening door.

_What do I do?_

He needed his magic, now more than ever.

_Figure out the painting's magical limits. Find another way out._

Footsteps entered the other room.

_...'Are you lost?'_

Harry may be lost, but he hadn't lost his mind yet, and he needed to keep it that way, needed to find a _stronger_ focus than the _darkness, uncertainty and fear_ encircling him within the room.

Behind him, controlled footsteps grew closer, but he remained focused, remained calm.

_No more running. No more hiding._

Anchor found, Harry turned to face the stretch of wall above the desk, the wall which could now be _marred, scathed and hurt._

Then he raised the letter opener–

_And carved a promise of his own._

III

Frustration fueled Riddle's steps as he returned to the seventh floor.

Behind him, _one by one,_ the torches lining the hallway extinguished with a flick of his wand, till nothing but night sunk in his wake.

His chance to pursue Alchemy was now _tarnished _through his unambitious peers and their _trivial _pursuits_._

And his only alternative laid with someone who regarded him with neutral indifference, yet eyed him with quiet judgement.

But Dumbledore would find nothing.

His mask was seamless.

A stone door appeared at the end of the hall, beckoning him with promise of reprieve from mundane duties, from the trite minds who flanked his every path.

For now, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

_'Gargoyle: Tomorrow night.'_

But as Riddle entered his conjured study, the sound of carving filled the air, grating his ears and deepening his displeasure.

He was in no mood to entertain.

So Riddle hunted down the irritant noise, expecting the boy in the painting to cower in his presence.

Yet the other remained where it stood, pressing something sharp against the wall in its study, unaware of his closing proximity.

But the lines of other's back were tense–_it knows I'm here_–yet it didn't stop in its ministrations, didn't turn around, didn't hide or behave in its previous skittish manner.

Instead, the other continued to dig curved lines into its wall.

Riddle peered closer, taking the opportunity to observe the occupant under the painted study's dimly offered light.

Books laid on its desk, along with a small box–

Then the small blade held within the other's hand changed its motion, the carving growing _harsh_, no longer curved and careful, but _straight and sharp._

As the other continued to carve in a determined and almost manic manner, Riddle experienced a slow tightening in his limbs, a stiffness in his neck and a coldness polluting his veins. Unexplainable sensations.

Then the hideous sound of slices and gashes came to a halt.

The painted boy moved back, blade still clutched in his hand, and stared up at its deed as if it held an invisible power.

Riddle stepped closer and peered.

But then spectacled eyed turned and faced Riddle, gaze unflinching and solid.

And behind the boy, on a stretch of wall enshrined by a small candles' light, were _seven etched circles._

_What is your promise?_

Four circles were crossed out.

.

.

.

* * *

**Author's Note:**  
Greetings to my new readers, and welcome back to my old readers! Thank you so much for your patience and kind support :) I hope this chapter has made up for my absence!

There is also new fanart!

_LAS-T_ from deviantart has created another masterpiece for this story, which can be found on my tumblr - antediluvian-poet. Follow me for story updates/progress reports, new fanart and sneak peeks ;) Feel free to nudge me into updating if I'm taking to long!

And once again, many thanks to my beta-reader ~CADEL.

So what did you think of the chapter lovely readers? Looking forward to your thoughts!

~A.D Poet


	5. Chapter 5

.

**Framed &amp; Fractured**  
\- Antediluvian Poet -

* * *

Chapter Five

* * *

III

Tom Riddle studied the scarred wall.

His eyes traced the seven circles, following their curved lines, gaze sharpening upon the deep incisions lacerated across the last four carvings.

Then his attention turned to the painting's guilty subject.

A crown of light encompassed the boy's silhouette from the candle behind, illuminating him against the room's shadowed grasp.

His stance was neither defensive nor offensive, instead akin to neutral assessment. Yet even the boy's attempt at neutrality was diluted with forced quietude; a tightened coil of energy ready to retreat or retaliate.

Even amongst a palette of monotonous hues and inconspicuous surroundings, the boy in the painting appeared a shade too sharp and vivid‒_too visceral. _A glaring dissonance which grew more evident with each inspection. Worse, however, was the lack of knowledge behind the distinct change within the other's demeanour.

_Interrogate him._

Tom examined the untouched and unused bed within the painting.

"How long are you staying?"

A beat of silence, then a reply.

"I don't know."

He listened to the tone, the pitch, the almost uncertain response.

_Truth._

"Why did you choose this room, this frame?"

The boy frowned, an instinctual reaction.

"...I didn't."

_Another truth. Take advantage_. _Offer an alternative._

"My previous offer still stands, should you wish to relocate. I'd imagine with time, solitude can become lonesome."

Spectacled eyes darted down to a small piece of parchment‒_a scroll_‒within his hand, the boy's complexion now stained with strange disquietude. But as quick as the micro-expression manifested, it disappeared. Yet Tom did not miss the other's clenched fist, nor how he stuffed the scroll into his pocket as he responded:

"I'm fine with being alone thanks."

_A strained truth. _

Then Tom took note of the bare bookshelf within the painted study, and lowered his gaze to the fallen book near the boy's feet. But before he could steal a glimpse of its contents, the boy grabbed it off the floor and slid it onto the desk behind him.

_Observant. Fast. Secretive_.

The painted figure then turned his back to Tom, and tucked his hand into the pocket of his trousers.

Slughorn's words returned:

_'...magically infused...cannot be transferred out...'_

And then with careful movement, the boy in the painting extracted the impossible wand from his pocket.

_'...could you imagine the chaos if they could.'_

Tom drew out his wand.

But the boy didn't turn around, didn't move in sudden retaliation or attack. Instead, he remained facing the desk, silent and still in what appeared to be deep contemplation. And when he did move, it was not how Tom expected.

Because the boy aimed the wand at his own desk.

A drawer opened, and out from the drawer, emerged a levitated quill.

The Slytherin's line of sight never left the painted figure. He scrutinised the portrait's rigid posture and braced limbs, the tentative and hesitant movements as the unsteady quill hovered in the air before lowering onto the desk.

Then the boy's limbs loosened, taunt knuckles no longer white around his wand.

And there it was again, the vexing sensation he'd witnessed something vital‒_a fragmented clue_‒but did not possess all the essential shards needed to reconstruct the painting's secret.

_Search him. _

Tom inspected the other's clothing once more.

_Stressed and singed material. Metallic lining on front. Foreign origins. German?_

The painted boy used the same non-verbal spell again to levitate a sheet of parchment from the drawer.

_Find out more._

"What was your original's name?"

The parchment hovered mid-air as the boy froze. Then he turned his head, side profile in view, voice laced with perfected confusion.

"...Original?"

_I can play your game._

"Yes. The individual your portrait was fashioned after. Surely he had a name."

The other's side profile vanished, front embraced by darkness once more as the sheet of parchment landed with less grace than the quill on the desk.

Silence.

_'...shades of their former selves...a fraction of who their originals were...'_

"My name isn't important. I'm no one."

_**Lie.**_

The boy in the painting was a concoction of truths and lies, a perplexing blend of contradictory deductions and unpredictable decisions. No matter how invigorating, it was equally infuriating, and Tom refused to remain ignorant for long.

_Library: Research Magical Paintings._

An inkwell levitated next from the drawer.

Then with his back still turned, and words spoken with careful deliberation, the painted boy asked his first question:

"The year...is it 1943?"

Tom blinked at the unexpected question.

"It is."

The inkwell remained airborne.

An unexplainable stillness cemented the other's form, seizing the painted study in charged silence.

Then the candle on the desk flickered, its flame agitated by the boy's hidden and heavy breaths, forcing its light to jitter and impose jagged shadows over the scarred wall—

Over the seven circles.

_Another clue. Another secret._

Tom traced the circles once more with his eyes, branding the strange markings into his memory as he asked:

"What do they mean?"

The boy heaved his head up‒movement lumbered‒and stared at his carvings, at the preserved relics from an unknown life preceding the present.

And when the boy answered it carried the weight of a vow once sworn.

After Tom left the Room‒as he headed towards Slytherin's male sleeping quarters, as he readied for bed and allowed sleep to settle over his mind‒the painted boy's burdened words inscribed themselves deep within his subconscious like an imminent and inevitable promise:

_"An unfinished task."_

* * *

III

* * *

The following morning, in an undisclosed hallway within the castle, Tom stood in front of a glamoured wall where a black door remained hidden to ignorant eyes.

He stepped closer to the door's dark frame, close enough for the ancient wood to hear his whispered words:

"_Praefectus Locus_."

Words heard, the door unlocked and creaked in acceptance, revealing Hogwarts' secret Common Room.

The room's interior integrated colours from all four Houses‒in its sofas and tapestries, rugs and cushions‒yet accomplished a harmonious embodiment of all four without appearing ill-suited.

Tom headed towards a plush green sofa, sat down beside Slytherin's female Prefect‒_Walburga Black_‒and observed the Head Boy and Head Girl exchange quiet words in front of the fireplace.

Then the Head Boy addressed the room.

"Thank you all for coming. Before we commence today's Prefect meeting are there any general announcements to share?"

Hufflepuff's male Prefect placed down a tray of sweets he'd been offering around the room.

_Graeme Fawley. Nephew to former Minister of Magic: Hector Fawley. Brother detained in Azkaban. Pure-blood._

"House Hufflepuff would like to extend an open invitation to our post OWLS celebration which will be held in the greenhouse. If you'd like to attend, please RSVP to myself," then he gestured to a girl handing out drinks, "or to Harriet to ensure there will be adequate refreshments on the night."

_Harriet Abbott. Hufflepuff's female Prefect. Addicted to Pepper-Up Potion. Pure-blood._

The Head Boy nodded once. "As long as it has been cleared with your Head of House, and no illicit substances are present, it shouldn't be a problem. Anything else to report?"

A timid Ravenclaw Prefect with round glasses‒_similar to the painted boy's spectacles_‒cleared her throat. The seat beside her was the only empty one in the room.

It seemed Ravenclaw's male Prefect was late again.

"...There have been‒"

"Could you please speak louder Myrtle?" requested Charlotte, the Head Girl.

_Myrtle Warren. Ravenclaw's female Prefect. Fears drowning. Muggle-born._

Myrtle adjusted her glasses, and stared at her hands. "Sorry, _um_...the girl's bathroom on the first floor is closed until further notice. Issues with plumbing."

Others made note of it in their journals. Tom's journal remained blank.

Then the Prewett boy leaned forward on his seat.

_Ignatius Prewett. Gryffindor's male Prefect. Severely allergic to wasps. Pure-blood._

"We've been receiving strange reports from a few ghosts. Apparently, some have been barred access to their usual locations within the castle."

"Barred? But they're ghosts," Walburga added with a disdainful sniff. "Can't they go anywhere they want?"

Prewett frowned. "Nearly-Headless Nick claims it's like an invisible barrier is stopping them. But the barriers always disappear, and the reported areas and time of occurrences seem completely random."

"...Is it even possible to contain an incorporeal form?" asked Abbott. But before the discussion could continue, the door to the meeting room opened.

And then Ravenclaw's absent male Prefect strode in.

_Caspar Crouch. Grandson of Cromwell Crouch‒Head of the Ministry's Research Committee. Ravenclaw's Beater. Pure-blood._

The Ravenclaw's smirk was designed to charm. "Sorry I'm late."

Crouch sauntered towards the sofa where Myrtle sat, winking at Walburga Black‒who ignored his flirt. He took no notice of Myrtle.

The Head Boy's expression was not pleased.

"This is the third time in a row you've been late to a meeting Crouch. A re-occurrence of tardiness will result in fifty points being deducted from your House."

Crouch stretched his arms out and over the backrest of the sofa with ease and unconcern towards his tardiness. "Apologies. It won't happen again."

"Make sure it doesn't." Then the Head Boy continued. "Now, being passed around is next fortnight's patrol duty schedules. If anyone's availability is subject to change within this time frame, please let me or Charlotte know."

The Prefects each took a copy.

Crouch hummed whilst surveying his own schedule. "I'm afraid I can't do next Thursday's patrol‒but I am free tonight. Perhaps someone could kindly trade shifts with me?"

Myrtle's smile was pathetic in its eagerness. "I can cover for you Caspar!"

Crouch gave her a wink. "Many thanks Myrtle."

_Manipulative. Excessive sense of self-entitlement._

Crouch leaned towards Walburga, cocky smile in place. "Have you heard of the exhibit my grandfather is arranging?"

"No," replied Black, picking off non-existent lint from her immaculate robes, "nor do I care."

_Walburga Black. Arranged to marry Orion Black. Despises her mother. Pure-blood._

But Crouch continued. "My family will be showcasing our collection of rare books which have never been shown to the public before." Then Crouch's eyes slid to Tom. "The invitations are exclusive I'm afraid. Only the most prestigious families will be attending."

A subtle snub.

The Head Boy straightened the remaining pile of parchments against his lap and surveyed the room. "Now, were there any other last minute issues to bring forth before we leave?"

Myrtle's voice was high-pitched and harsh to Tom's ears. "Is it true Professor Dumbledore's leaving Hogwarts?"

Tom looked up sharp.

Others began to murmur.

The Head Boy's words were careful. "Professor Dumbledore may be leaving on unofficial Ministry business. When, or how long, is uncertain. I don't know any more than that I'm afraid."

Tom frowned. It seemed certain events would have to be expedited against his wishes.

_Dumbledore: Inquire after Alchemy._

"If that is all, then meeting adjourned."

The Prefects stood up and gathered their belongings, Crouch one of the first to head towards the exit.

Myrtle rushed after him. "Caspar!"

However, Crouch kept walking, dismissive. "Sorry Myrtle, but I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"But you dropped something."

The Ravenclaw huffed, then turned around. But as soon as he caught sight of the returned item_‒a miniature hourglass‒_his expression closed off. He grabbed the object from Myrtle's palm and shoved it back into his robes.

And then the scene was barred from Tom's view as the Head Boy approached him.

"Could I have a moment of your time Riddle? There's something I'd like to discuss."

They moved towards the window, out of earshot from the remaining Prefects who lingered near the refreshments. And as the Head Boy peered through the window pane, Tom noted the tall Gryffindor carried an old scar along the edge of his jaw.

_Fleamont Potter. Seventh year Gryffindor. Excellent duelist. Pure-blood._

The other turned back around, posture relaxed and tone curious. "So, the unofficial word above is that you're to be groomed for Head Boy position."

A pause.

"I wasn't aware. It is an honour."

Potter's stare was direct. "A position like that involves heavier responsibilities than that of a Prefect. Not only does it require loyalty to Hogwarts' rules and disciplines, but it also requires strong leadership, and dedication towards the well-being of _every_ student housed within this castle." He studied Tom. "Do you believe yourself capable of such a task?"

"Yes."

The Head Boy assessed him, the line of his mouth hard, but then he nodded. "Good."

Potter's gaze returned to the window, following the flight of a white owl. His voice lowered. "...I've had suspicions for some time now concerning prohibited activities operating within Hogwarts. Specifically, the selling of illicit products of a recreational nature."

Tom recalled a memory from the night before, a witnessed scene whilst on his way to Slughorn's office:

_A vial exchanged for coins. A flicker of gold dust misting the air above._

"May I ask why this wasn't mentioned during the meeting?"

Potter's brows furrowed. The white owl had flown out of sight.

"Because aside from a gut feeling, I don't have any evidence. And as Head Boy, it is my duty to investigate every serious allegation‒rumour or not." Then his expression turned grave, youthful features marred with self-imposed burdens. "And if my suspicions _are_ correct, I fear there may be possible involvement from numerous levels of the student body‒_Prefects included_."

Tom remained silent as the implication sunk in.

The Head Boy held his gaze, determination burnt into his brown eyes. "What I need is someone to investigate in my place without arousing suspicion, someone sharp-minded, _someone capable_." His voice deepened, requesting yet also commanding. "Can I entrust you with this task Tom?"

_Gain his trust. Become Head Boy._

"Absolutely."

* * *

III

* * *

Avery frowned at the black cauldron.

'_Tergeo'_ and _'Scourgify' _had failed.

So the dark-haired Slytherin grabbed a metal scrub, bent over his cauldron, and scrubbed in an attempt to remove the stubborn stains his magic should have spelled away.

He did not hear the loud ringing of a bell which signified the end of fourth period Potions, nor did he feel stinging pain where metal had rubbed his skin a raw shade of red.

All he heard was the abrasive sound of metal scratching against metal as he continued to scrub unyielding stains, his motions repetitive‒_circular and vicious_‒until a hand tapped his arm.

Avery flinched.

Lestrange's voice was steady and calm. "It's clean."

But it wasn't. Couldn't Lestrange see the black smears which refused to disappear? He sneaked a glance at Lestrange's cauldron, and the sight deepened his dismay.

Clean and spotless as always.

Lestrange gathered his belongings. "Do you want my help with the rest?"

Avery glowered at the cauldron, but shook his head. "Just a knife and glass vial left to clean."

"Alright. I'll wait outside."

So Avery returned to his task.

He cleaned the vial first and placed it aside. Then he picked up the silver knife and wiped it down with a small cloth, polishing it until it shone and his own reflection gleamed back up at him.

But then his reflection deceived him as the lines of his face twisted into his father's bone-hard features, the mirrored likeness a taunt.

_No. I'm nothing like him._

And as the ghost stared back from the silver blade, Avery fought the sudden urge to drain his veins empty of his father's blood.

"Avery m'boy! Almost done?" Slughorn peered over his shoulder.

He fumbled with the knife.

The Potion Master's expression shifted into something resembling concern, but Avery discerned it as pity he neither wanted nor needed.

"About your father, I'm sorry to hear‒"

Avery cut in. "My father's mistakes are not mine."

_I'm nothing like him._

"No one thinks that lad," Slughorn reassured him gently. "However, I have noticed you've been distracted in class as of late."

"Sorry...I'll try to be more attentive."

But then his father's voice sliced into his mind like a sharp cut.

_'You're a disappointment, Avery.'_

Avery closed his eyes and willed his father's voice away, yet his mind refused to give him a slither of kindness, refused him mercy as his subconscious dredged up a caustic memory—

_Of his father gripping his head and forcing him to look into a cracked mirror, the older man's breath laced with sour fire whiskey as he spat cruel and cursed words at a younger and frightened version of himself: 'You were born to fail.'_

Avery gripped the bench.

"If you ever need to talk, my door is always open," offered Slughorn.

_'Seeking help is a form of weakness.' _

He could still feel his father's heavy shadow on his back.

Slughorn patted his shoulder‒_don't flinch_‒then left to check the other work tables in the classroom. And that's when he noticed a searing pain within his clenched fist.

He unfurled his hand and found the small knife he'd meant to clean. Beneath the knife‒running shallow across his palm‒was a cut.

The exposed line of flesh bloomed pink, then darkened, staining the blade till it obscured his reflection. Yet even then, his father's cruel face arose through the veil of blood-stained silver like a permanent and punishing blemish—

_'You were born to fail.'_

Avery shut his eyes and let his father's ruining words sink in.

He let it fill him till he drowned in barbed anger, till the injustice burned his lungs and fuelled him with a desire to prove the world wrong, prove his father wrong.

But then the back of his neck prickled‒an instinct honed against his will. He looked up.

Lestrange studied him from the door, expression neutral, yet with eyes too observant.

_Lestrange mustn't find out._

Avery healed the cut with a well-practiced flick, watched as his skin stitched together till only a faint line remained. Then he cleaned the knife one final time, and placed it back in the drawer.

And beside the drawer sat the stained cauldron.

He turned towards Slughorn. "Professor, I tried to clean the cauldron as best as I could, but there may be some grease left."

The Potion Master waved him off, assuring him it was fine. So Avery packed his belongings, and walked towards the exit, clinging tight to the stressed strap of his bag.

He had a task to do.

_Tonight: Feed the Ghost. _

No one noticed the stolen glass vial now hidden in Avery's pocket, nor the faint shimmer of gold dust smeared on the cuff of his sleeve.

And later, when Slughorn checked Avery's cauldron, the older man frowned in confusion.

It was spotless.

* * *

III

* * *

Tom maneuvered through swarms of students and headed towards an arched entryway leading him towards Hogwarts' central stairwell.

_Fifth Period: Ancient Runes._

Tremours magnified beneath his feet.

The distinct sound of stone grinding against stone reverberated through the air as numerous staircases pivoted and settled into their new platforms. And ahead, the blurred sight of countless magical portraits surrounding the stairwell grew clearer with each step.

But lurking beneath the dominant groans of ancient stones were also the tell-tale sounds of a heated dispute.

_"You sneaky little snake! I know it was you!"_

Tom stopped at the entrance threshold, and listened as a smaller voice replied:

"...you've got the wrong person."

Tom peered around the wall's edge.

Pressed against the wall was a second-year Slytherin boy. And in front of him‒bodies like tall barricades‒were two older and imposing Gryffindors, displaying a tactlessness on Gryffindor's behalf paradoxical to their House's alleged _'honour'_.

Red and gold loomed over silver and green.

"_Liar!_ I know it was you who stole my brother's pocket watch! And if you're not gonna own up to it, then I guess I'll just have to take it back myself!"

The Gryffindor grabbed the Slytherin's bag.

_An honourable bully is still a bully._

Tom intervened.

"It goes against school rules to forcibly take another student's belongings. That's fifteen points deducted from Gryffindor."

Indignation coloured the accuser's face. "Tell _that_ to the lying little snake! _He's_ the one stealing things!"

Tom's tone remained neutral.

"Aside from the colour of his tie, do you have proof to support your claim?"

The Gryffindor tilted his chin up and squared his jaw, response spoken with foolish certainty. "My little brother is not a liar. I know it's in his bag‒_just check it!_"

_Fool. Everybody lies._

The younger Slytherin boy remained silent, but nodded once in assent for Tom to search his belongings. However, red and gold triumph soon shifted into confusion, disbelief, and then morphed into red-faced anger.

There was no pocket watch within the bag.

"The next time you suspect something has been stolen," said Tom to the Gryffindors as he passed the bag back to the younger Slytherin, "I suggest you report it first instead of ruling your own verdict." _Your righteousness has failed you here._ "Now, I advise you head to your next class, otherwise additional house points will be deducted for truancy."

The two Gryffindors grumbled, then turned to walk away. But before they did, the accuser imparted a promise to the young Slytherin standing out of view behind Tom.

"I won't forget this Ranstad."

Then they left.

Ranstad restrapped his bag onto his shoulder, gaze fixated to the ground. "Thank you, but you didn't need to intervene."

However, the real message was clear: _thank you, but now they believe I'm weak. _

Tom surveyed the younger Slytherin.

_Evan Ranstad. Second year Slytherin. Regular exposure to verbal abuse and domestic violence. Half-blood._

'If they bother you again, let me know."

Empty words. The boy would choose to remain silent should further assault occur. It was the Slytherin way. However, he nodded, then left.

Tom took a deep breath in, then turned to make his way to Ancient Runes. But as he turned towards the stairs, a gruff voice behind him declared a judgment of their own:

"The behaviour of students nowadays‒their aggression and arrogance‒_such a disgrace!"_

Tom faced a wall littered with magical paintings, and quickly found the source of resentment.

A painted man‒with an upturned nose and receding grey hair‒sat at his desk, expression displeased. "And the staff just watch and do absolutely nothing!"

_Yet you're guilty of the same crime old man._

"‒it's all this new nonsense of _not_ beating your children, I say! Discipline has become_ impossible_ to instill, because children no longer fear punishment!"

Tom's jaw twitched. "Quite unfortunate. Now, if you'll excuse‒"

But the painted aristocrat bullied through his attempt to leave. "What was your name again boy?"

_Remain polite_. He unclenched his jaw.

"Tom Riddle. Fifth Year Slytherin Prefect."

The portrait squinted his eyes and assessed him.

"A half-blood are you...well...you seem to be well-mannered enough. Probably received a few good beatings during your youth, _aye_." The painting continued, oblivious of his antagonistic words. "It seemed to have worked in your favour, _in spite_ of your lesser blood."

Credit had never been more misplaced.

_He'd_ taught himself at a young age that manners decreased the probability of conflict. His ability to form deductions‒_by using deep-seated fears and flaws of others against themselves_‒protected him from further assault. He'd been his own architect. He'd earned his position. The credit did not lay within the crude hands of imbecilic brutes from his youth who targeted him for mere pleasure.

No. The credit belonged to him.

So Tom smiled in polite return, unperturbed by the portrait's erroneous statements, and asked:

"What is the disciplinary punishment for a disobedient painting? I doubt a beating would be as effective when you're just an impression of someone who once lived." _You are no one. You've lost your power._

The old portrait scoffed.

"We have our own precautionary measures‒tales passed down by the older paintings‒which keep the newer portraits in check. We're not _uncivilised_."

"And what do these tales involve?" Mockery hidden, Tom added, "They must be very...frightful."

But the portrait shook his head.

"It is more the punishment within the tales which ensure our obedience."

Curiosity overtook annoyance.

The old painted man searched his person for his pipe. "The tales are older than the portraits remember, with several variations existing." Pipe now found, he lit it up with a small lighter. "But they all revolve around a painting who grew too bold‒_too volatile, too dangerous_‒so they were locked away, hidden and never permitted to see the light of day again."

_'Why did you choose this room, this frame?'_

_'...I didn't'_

The portrait continued, exhaling painted smoke which rose in wisps above his head. "It's all fictitious of course, but the threat of eternal isolation now serves as our version of death."

_'I'd imagine with time, solitude can become lonesome...'_

_'I'm fine with being alone thanks.'_

"‒and isolation eventually deforms into insanity."

* * *

III

* * *

Harry didn't need to turn around to know the moment Riddle left.

_He felt it._

He felt the room entomb him as the fourth wall sealed, barring the fireplace's flare and flame. He felt the room's last vestige of warmth wither as the painted study darkened within its frame.

He felt chilled air pierce the wood of his wand, the thrumming of magic now stolen and gone. He stared up at the scarred wall above the desk, and watched as his unfinished task regressed.

One by one, line by line, the seven carved circles faded in front of him, till all that remained was an unmarred stretch of barren wall.

But the sensation which overtook everything else was cold realisation, sinking heavy in his gut like an oil spill.

Because this wasn't an illusion.

Because he was further from home than he'd _ever_ imagined possible.

_In 1943._

Harry buried the seeds of hysteria which threatened to sprout into strangling vines. And as he turned around to confront the newly blackened wall, Riddle's first question returned:

…_'How long are you staying?'_

He looked at the dishonest pocket watch which slumbered on the desk, and then frowned as he remembered the scroll's sinister warning.

_How long do I have?_

It was as if he'd found a compass, only to discover it was broken. Because the world had turned upside down‒_had inverted its magnetic fields_‒and the only directions it displayed now were non-existent and impossible bearings.

Harry sagged into the chair in front of the desk, and ran his hands through his hair.

It now wasn't enough to _deter_ Riddle's curiosity, _hide_ his identity, and then _somehow _escape the room. Because leaving‒finding a way home‒was no longer only difficult, but had now widened into a chasm of impossibilities.

He dragged his hands down his face, finger pads brushing past his lightning bolt scar.

_I want to go home._

To combat his isolation, Harry picked up the emerald book he'd hidden from Riddle's prying eyes, and searched through it till he found a familiar creature.

The drawing of Fawkes stared up at him, still and unmoving, just like the rest of his cursed surrounding. And underneath the drawing of the Phoenix, were the mysterious scribe's notes:

_'Tears with the ability to heal severe ailments. Strength to carry great weights and apparate. Lifespan forever perpetuated through a never-ending circle of birth &amp; death.'_

But in the end, Fawkes' tears hadn't been able to save Dumbledore as the Gaunt ring blackened his fingers and poisoned his body.

Harry closed his eyes as old hurt resurfaced.

Then somewhere within his guilt-fevered and inflamed mind, Dumbledore's voice swirled like a soothing balm:

_"...__We must try not to sink beneath our anguish, but battle on..."_

And that's when Harry remembered the inkwell, parchment and quill. Levitation had succeeded.

_Test more spells. Utilise what magic you can._

He opened his eyes.

And there was Fawkes, bright on the page, worth so much more than what the scribe's description beneath it offered.

With new words chosen, Harry picked up the quill, dipped its nib into the inkwell, and added a note of his own‒one for Fawkes:

_'Loyal and Courageous.'_

And one for himself.

_'Battle on.'_

However, the moment of peace did not last long.

Because his written vow began to fade.

Harry watched as the old parchment _absorbed_ and _consumed_ his words till they disappeared from sight.

_No. It can't be._

The last time a book reacted the same, Voldemort's horcrux had written back.

Harry turned the dry page to check if ink had transferred over‒_hoping a stranger's words wouldn't answer or appear_‒but all he discovered was an unfinished page dedicated to another creature.

Ink old, and penmanship patient, the title read:

_'Ghosts'._

* * *

III

* * *

Outside, storm clouds gathered above Hogwarts as the school day ended.

Evening light darkened into an early and enforced night as Tom walked towards an intersecting corridor within the west wing of the castle.

_Library: Research Magical Paintings._

Then rain began its onslaught.

Tom walked alongside the castle's high windows, and watched as several students retreated indoors to seek shelter from the encroaching storm. But then, just as he reached the intersection between two corridors, a foreign body rushed around the corner and slammed into his.

Tom steadied his balance.

However, the same could not be said for the smaller student who fell to the ground, the contents of their bag scattered all around them.

_Evan Ranstad. _

The second-year Slytherin realised who he'd collided with, and paled. "I'm so sorry!" But then the boy noticed his own sprawled belongings, and begun gathering them with furtive haste.

Tom frowned at the nervous state of the boy, then looked down the other end of the corridor for signs of a hunt.

"Is someone after you?"

Ranstad's shoulders tightened. "...It felt like someone was following me." He continued collecting his strewn belongings.

A book laid on the ground near Tom's feet, just out of Ranstad's reach, so he reached down to help the younger Slytherin.

"No! I can get it myself!"

But Tom had already grabbed it. And as he lifted it off the stone floor, the book opened—

...And out fell a pocket watch.

The small time-piece clinked against cold stone, singing a damning and descanted tune which echoed through the narrow corridor. And once the ringing ceased, Tom directed his gaze onto the boy he'd defended earlier.

_Fool. Everybody lies_.

"You lied to me."

The younger boy stared at the ground, fingers gripping the threadbare fabric of his bag. "I didn't lie to you... I lied to _them_."

A Slytherin indeed.

"Well, let's see what other _lies_ you've told, shall we?"

He opened the book, and discovered a secret hollowed space where pages should have been. Coins, bracelets and other small stolen objects gleamed with guilt.

And hidden amongst the tangle of snatched possessions, was a glass vial.

* * *

III

* * *

Harry stared at the page.

He didn't know which was more disconcerting; the fact that the scribe had included '_Ghosts_' into an anthology he'd assumed was reserved for creatures—

Or that the page had no drawings.

A sense of eeriness crawled down Harry's neck as he stared at the blank spot where a sketch should have been. Yet after a closer look, the unfilled space revealed old imprints from a drawing now erased.

Something had been there once.

Then he lowered his gaze, and noticed a written passage below the missing sketch. Book brought closer to the candle's paralysed flame, Harry read the solemn note:

_'To follow them is to be lost.'_

* * *

III

* * *

Tom's eyes sharpened upon the gold dust swirling within contained glass.

_Remove from the boy's possession. Investigate._

"Who gave this to you?"

"No one!"

"Where did you find it?"

"Please, I don't know what it is. I wouldn't have taken it if it was important."

"_Who?_"

"A Ravenclaw! I don't know his name. But it was an accident. I hadn't meant to grab the vial. I was only after his timepiece!"

Tom's brows furrowed at the other's words, then searched the box's contents once more. But his frown deepened as he pulled out a familiar object from the assortment of stolen items.

"This?"

The boy nodded.

A miniature hourglass.

_Caspar Crouch._

"Stealing is not permitted within Hogwarts. I'm afraid I have to report you to Slughorn."

Ranstad grew distressed. "No, _please_–I'll return everything!" And although the boy's next words were whispered, they were heavy with implication:

"My stepfather...he'll be furious..."

The younger boy remained on the ground, arms wrapped around himself. Dirt dusted the end of his worn robes, while a tear through his trousers revealed a grazed knee.

And numerous scars.

_An abused thief is still a thief._

At Wool's Orphanage, Dumbledore had offered zero tolerance towards his thieving impulses. However, the older wizard had never attempted to understand why Tom formed the habit in the first place–the necessity behind the dishonest act. He'd kept his secrets better guarded since then, and along the way, learnt he could use the secrets of others for his own purposes. And Ranstad could be useful.

_Gain the boy's loyalty._

Tom offered his free hand. "I'll let it slide this time."

Ranstad looked up at him. "What do you want?" Because the boy knew there would be a price to pay for the leniency he'd been given.

"A favour in the near future."

Uncertainty lined the boy's face. However, mercy was a rare and scarce token–_especially for a half-blood in Slytherin_–and to reject it would be foolish, and a waste.

The young half-blood accepted his hand.

Tom pulled Ranstad up onto his feet, and then passed over the book filled with stolen trinkets. But despite being caught, Tom knew the boy would keep stealing–because some impulses were harder to discard. So he imparted a few words of advice:

"Don't get caught again. There are many who wish to see us fall."

Buried within his robes, the glass vial and miniature hourglass clinked against one another in condemning chimes as Tom strode past Ranstad to continue down the corridor.

_Question Caspar Crouch_.

But his travels to the library were disrupted once more when two female ghosts descended from the ceiling above, and floated straight through his body.

Tom let out an involuntary shudder as an unpleasant chill penetrated his clothes and entered his bones.

The ghosts, however, were too engrossed in their conversation to perceive the displeased Slytherin Prefect, who pointed his wand onto his sleeves, and vanished the veil of ghost residue with a Skurge Scouring Charm. But as he straightened his robes, and readied to resume his walk to the library, he overheard one ghost whisper to the other:

"–_has come_ _back to complete an unfinished task_."

In one sharp movement, Tom jerked his head towards the two spirits behind him.

And as he recalled an image of the painted boy–_silhouette encompassed by a small candle's flame, words burdened from a vow once sworn_‒the incorporeal bodies floated further away.

_Follow the Ghosts._

* * *

III

* * *

_'To follow them is to be lost.'_

Harry frowned at the strange and almost despondent message.

However, what held his attention more was the second scrawled message, written close to the bottom of the parchment's edge.

Handwriting sharp and heavy‒as if written in great haste‒the passage offered four cautionary words:

_'Beware the Vengeful Spirit.'_

* * *

III

* * *

Unrelenting rain tormented Hogwarts.

Tom followed the ghosts, distance far enough not to gain their suspicion, but near enough to hear their nervous and conspiratory words.

"Whoever this new spirit is, they're powerful enough to _barricade_ _us_ from moving freely within the castle." Her whisper grew worried. "The Bloody Baron thinks we're being punished... that _vengeance_ is being sought after."

"_But Mary_, _ghosts cannot haunt other ghosts!_"

Mary and her companion stopped gliding. Tom could see her translucent features etched with unease. "That's why the others believe an Original has returned to Hogwarts."

Mary's companion gasped. "A_ Sanctus Spiritum_? But an Original has never been sighted within Hogwarts' before. _Who has returned?_"

Rain pummeled the castle's window panes, making it difficult for Tom to overhear.

He stepped closer.

And then lightning cracked through the blackened sky, casting fleeting light over the shadowed corridor, over Tom as he hid, and over the huddled specters as Mary whispered with graveness:

"_The ghost of Salazar Slytherin_."

.

.

.

* * *

**Author's Note:**  
I spent three months stubbornly rewriting one scene from this chapter, only to figure out a few days ago that it wasn't working because it belonged in the _next_ chapter o_0'

Structural shenanigans aside, this chapter was brought into existence by my reviewers, and sustained through my followers. Thank you for all for your readership and continued support! The last chapter received incredible reviews, some where readers quoted back their favourite lines, which I found to be the most awesome and flattering thing in the world XD I've been a little behind on responding back to reviews, but please know, I've read every single one, and I'll be replying to them very soon :)

Also, Happy Birthday Tom Riddle! _LAS-T_ from Deviantart has created a new artwork for his birthday, which can be found on her site, or on my tumblr :)

A _huge_ thanks and hug to my new beta, ~purplewitch156, who offered wonderful wisdom and support throughout this chapter's writing process! And many thanks to my creative consultant, ~CADEL, for offering plot feedback despite a hectic schedule!

Again, thanks for reading, and I hope you all have an awesome New Year!

~A.D Poet


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